Chapter 8

Heidi

“What do you think about this one?”

Liza poked her newly manicured thumb at the black-and-white striped storefront. I was mesmerized by her polish of choice. Apparently, the nail attendant had told her it was like a mood ring, only nail polish, which meant it got redder the happier she was. Right now, it was blaring, bright cherry red.

And I couldn’t blame her. The closer the seconds ticked to tomorrow, the more excited and nervous I got myself. In the flat, I’d spent half the day wandering around fruitlessly, moving inanimate objects like Kleenex boxes and pens from one useless space to another until Liza had finally suggested a trip out of the house that we so desperately needed. Besides, shopping was our favorite activity.

“Hello, earth to Heidi,” Liza said, waving all five beaming red nails in my face.

“Sorry,” I said, grinning. “Just admiring your manicure. This place looks good.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Liza said, clearly pleased.

Really, I’d only hastily glanced in the window. It showcased several sitting mannequins in colored mod outfits that also looked vaguely punkish. Usually, goth wasn’t my style, but something told me Charles would find it enticing. And tonight, that was my only goal.

Liza “oohed” and “aahed” over a whole circular rack of leather skirts of various lengths. Seeing my friend so obliviously into the task had my heart boiling with guilt. Several days had passed, and I still hadn’t told Liza the real details of my date with Charles. As in, the real mind-blowingly sexy details of the hot fuck fest we’d had.

But every time I even considered telling her, my stomach was jammed with such an immediate sensation of revulsion, I knew it was impossible.

Monday night, I’d had what could only modestly be described as the best sex of my life. I was not about to go and endanger that by running my mouth to Liza. Sure, I knew she wasn’t the type to go blabbing all around town about it, but if Charles found out—hell, if he even asked me outright—I wouldn’t be able to lie to him.

“The world’s worst liar” was what my mom had proudly declared me at seven years of age when I’d tried telling her some tall tale about what had happened to her expensive Venetian vase. She had me clean up the shimmery amber shards, and I’d only dabbled in lying ever since. I just wasn’t good at it. According to my friends, my cheeks went beet red and I was stricken with the immediate need to look away from any living thing in a five-mile vicinity. So, the truth it was for me.

Like now, as Liza lifted the ugliest skirt I’d ever seen. It was patchwork and polka dot mixed with tiger print and…was that neon-green fur?

“Is this ugly?”

I looked at her with a pained expression. Pain, mainly because Liza was forcing me to say what she secretly knew already. “Yes,” I said.

Liza exhaled angrily. “You’re no fun,” she complained.

“If you want to go out there and be ugly without me telling you…”

“Oh, thanks. You’re just a regular Mother Teresa,” Liza muttered darkly before striding to the opposite end of the store.

I focused my attention on a line of dresses in the corner. They were on sale, although it wasn’t the sale sign that drew me there. It was the material.

Leather. Sure, I already had a white leather dress at home, but it was of a different style entirely, more modern and posh. The ones here could only be described as biker chic. They were black or blue and clingy with a zipper straight down the front. They basically said “fuck me now, I’m ready, and I’m bad.”

Just looking at them made me feel hard core. So, I went into one of the open dressing rooms and tried a black one on.

Immediately, I knew.

“Liza, come look at this!” I called to her.

“Sorry, I’m too busy looking at ugly clothes,” Liza deadpanned.

I sighed. “Come on, please?”

After a long, drawn-out sigh, Liza stormed over.

“Okay, show me.”

I open the door, and Liza’s determined scowl sagged.

“Okay,” she admitted, “so it’s fucking perfect. What else do you want me to say?”

With that, she turned and stormed off, now apparently even more annoyed that I’d found a great buy before she had.

Once I made it out of the changing room, however, Liza had found something herself.

“You can’t hate this,” she said. It was as much of a statement as it was a warning to me.

“It’s actually nice,” I replied, nodding my approval at the leather miniskirt she was wearing.

Liza gave me a “so there” look before disappearing back into the changing room.

When we got to the counter, it took us a minute before the attendant came out of the back room to greet us. When he did, he stopped dead in his tracks.

“Hi,” I said tentatively, lifting up the dress hanger to mime to him what we were there for. “We just wanted to buy these.”

He parted his lips. Closed them. Then opened them once more, as if he were some kind of broken talking Furby or something. Finally, after a good half minute of staring, he found the words.

“You’re Heidi Sommers and Liza Peterson.”

“Yes,” Liza said in a clipped tone. “That’s us.”

Clearly, my former insult of her beloved yet hideous patchwork skirt had put her in a permanently bad mood.

The man held up a thin hand, only shaking his head.

“I cannot accept money from you two ladies.”

Liza and I exchanged a look. I’d had this happen once or twice before, but was it actually happening again?

I placed the dress closer to him on the counter.

“Really,” I said, “I insist.”

He shook his head so forcefully that his stringy dark hair waved a little in its own refusal.

“No. I insist.”

“Are you sure?” Liza said.

Clearly, her bitchy mood had brightened at the prospect of free clothes.

“I’m sure,” he said simply. “You two ladies have a good day.”

I eyed him for a few seconds uncertainly. Usually when people offered us free stuff, they were weird about it, trying to insinuate that maybe we should give them something since they had been our greatest fan since we were born or something.

When we turned away, the man added, “There is one thing.”

Liza and I exchanged a look. I wasn’t really in the mood to deal with an odd request, like letting his cousin’s sister’s four-year-old goat come on a photo shoot.

“Could you sign my banana?”

For what must’ve been at least ten whole seconds, his question hung in the room awkwardly. Liza and I exchanged a look, mouthing “banana” at each other to be sure we’d heard him correctly.

“I’ve gotten different celebrities to sign them,” he explained, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

I followed his skull-ringed finger up to the perimeter of the ceiling. There, a whole ring of blackened bananas was gathered, apparently glued or nailed; I couldn’t tell from here.

Catching our expressions, he sighed.

“I know. It was kind of idiotic of me since bananas turn brown and then you can’t really see the Sharpie. But for the first one I got Goldie Hawn to sign, I didn’t have anything on hand except a stupid banana and my skin. I wanted something that lasts. Anyway, the Sharpie I have now glows in the dark, so it still shows up. See?”

Without any warning, he darted back and snapped off the light.

I let out a little cry, which was then stifled when I saw exactly what he was talking about. There, in the dark of the room around us, were the far-off, barely visible and yet unmistakable glowing names of celebrities. I could just make out Jim Carrey and Whoopi Goldberg from where I was standing.

The light snapped back on to showcase the man eyeing us hopefully.

“Will you do it?”

“Sure,” I said, grinning.

Beside me, Liza was smiling too. I had to admit, this was by far the weirdest—and best—request I’d gotten yet.

Once we signed the bananas, the man waved us good-bye and we walked out of there—just in time to come face to face with a storm of paparazzi.

“This again?” Liza said darkly, shooting me a sidelong glance.

The glance said, Are you ready for this?

I grinned a devilish smile back.

“You betcha.”

Grabbing hands and hoisting our new purchases over our faces as a barrier, we ran as fast as our legs could carry us, giggling maniacally all the while.